Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  “Computer Science major?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “What exactly?”

  “You’re awfully full of questions, Miss, uh—” he swiveled her chair a half turn, examined her ID. “Sinclair. For a Newbie, I mean.”

  She gave him her most disarming grin. “Just practicing my investigatory skills.”

  —o—

  Dir. Pers. Mr. Hanford had sworn her parking sticker and HomSec ID were a Get Out of Jail pass for the Bug. She sure hoped so. It was two weeks until her first paycheck.

  Kat stepped off the bus with a dozen men and women, and followed them along Shepherd Parkway. The people were chattering in Spanish and several other languages she couldn’t identify.

  The Impoundment Yard was supposed to be at the end of the road. She looked around. The area, sprawling among the Sequoia-sized concrete columns supporting six lanes of Interstate, was a post-apocalypse landscape; playground of Mad Max and the Terminator.

  The steady roar of traffic above competed with the rhythmic cacophony of a car crusher across the road. Wind-blown litter grabbed her ankles, and a petroleum stench rising from iridescent puddles assailed her nose. Her traveling companions headed for a long, shed-like building.

  Day workers, pickers at a recycling center. She could see people standing on both sides of a clanking conveyor belt, tossing corrugated boxes into a pit, separating glass from plastic.

  Stay in school, kiddies, she said to herself, then laughed out loud as she realized her new job wasn’t all that different.

  Jets screamed so low overhead she could see the landing gear unfold like the talons of a swooping peregrine. Marginal men pushing supermarket carts competed with overloaded pickup trucks heading into the recycling yard. A Hieronymus Bosch landscape, minus the nudity and the pitchforks.

  She found her destination behind a chain link fence topped with razor wire, and filled with hundreds of cars, ranging from wrecked hulks to showroom shiny. She didn’t see the Bug.

  Kat pulled open the door of a tired cinderblock building that made her think of Dad’s township garage back home. Except his Department of Highways posters advised the civilians to Buckle Up and told the road warriors to wear Safety Orange when doing battle with those civilians.

  Here the posters announced the Hot Line phone numbers for suspicious vehicles, packages, and behavior. Another used photographs of various turbans and kaffiyeh to distinguish Sunni from Shia, Sikh from Hindu, in polyglot Washington.

  Everything wore a patina of hard use, overlaid with the smells of anger and sweat. A hanging florescent light buzzed above a plywood counter. A sign screwed to the front said: ‘Have Photo ID and Payment Receipt Ready’. Dozens of black and white tv screens flickered with time lapse shots of downtown DC. Traffic cams. The scenes jerked like old Keystone Cops movies.

  A car radio hooked to a twelve volt transformer played soft rock. It competed with a police scanner burping static-laced official business. Kat called, “Hello?”

  A wiry old guy with scarecrow hair appeared in a doorway. Dressed in grimy coveralls with NOODLES embroidered on the chest, he pulled a rag from his hip pocket, and wiped his hands, then accepted her U.S. Government bona fides without argument. He delivered what sounded like a scripted explanation.

  “You got to unnerstan, this DHS sticker ain’t a license to park wherever you feel like. The rules’re there to keep traffic moving, so you park in a no-no, you’ll still get a tow-tow.” He paused for the laugh that didn't come. “Just won’t cost you nothing.” He initialed her pink copy, and stuck out his hand. “Gimme the keys; I’ll bring your wheels out front.”

  Retrieving the Bug had used up her lunch hour, and she fed a pair of vending machines flanked by a collection of salvaged car seats; vinyl-covered bench jobs with a sixties look.

  Kat selected her lunch, peanut butter crackers and Evian, and plopped into a relatively grease-free seat. She put her computer carryall on her lap, and opened the crackers. That’s when the Tattooed Prick came in the door.

  Nick Paloma glanced at her, headed toward the office. “Well, well,” she said around a mouthful of Ritz. “If it isn’t lovely Rita, meter maid.”

  He stopped, turned. “I know you?”

  She gave her head a little shake. “Not really. I guess all your tow jobs look alike.”

  The wiry guy returned, handed her the keys to the Bug, and followed Nick behind the counter. They watched her walk outside, bend over the back end of her car.

  Nick asked, “What was that all about, Noodles?”

  Noodles shrugged. “Nice can. When was the last time we had a happy customer in here?”

  Nick glanced at the pink. “Not another freebie. Seems like half our tows are government exempt. I guess it’s in their benefit packages, like health care and a pension plan.”

  Noodles grinned and handed Nick the latest bulletin from Metro. “Maybe it’s why our daily quota has been raised from a hunnert to a hunnert and a half. Downtown depends on the thirty grand a day.”

  Nick read, then tossed the directive on the countertop. “How much you want to bet we don’t get more hires or more overtime to cover this?”

  Noodles laughed. “No bet. Odds are better playin’ Powerball.”

  Kat used a wet-nap to clean a spot, and applied her DHS parking permit beside a bumper sticker. Men Are Jerks, Women Are Psychotic—Kilgore Trout. She noticed a wavy smudge on the side of the Bug, a black mark on the yellow paint. She wasn’t sure if it was fresh, and she sure wasn’t going to raise a fuss in this hellhole. And she sure wasn’t ever never no way gonna park in a Tow Zone again.

  Chapter Eight

  The early bird gets first grab at the granola, and as dawn gilded the Washington Monument SHORTSTOP was on the StairMaster in the Oval Office. After twenty years as star of the sitcom Yes, Sir, Mr. President, it was only natural he'd confused reality television with reality, and run for the real deal.

  He was not the only one shocked when the voters chose name recognition over political experience. Apparently free Second Amendment T-shirts and thirty second commercials of his best standup jokes, complete with laugh track, trumped governmental experience and promises to balance the budget.

  He learned the Real Deal was a lot harder than thirteen weeks on a sound stage, and chose his primary opponent as vice president. DEERSLAYER not only knew where the bodies were buried, but also told SHORTSTOP which ones should be resurrected, and placed in his cabinet.

  Whenever the stress of presidenting became too much he turned to the exercise machine. As a lame duck, with the election of his successor just days away, he experienced a curious sense of euphoria. No more photo ops, speeches, endless rounds of golf with campaign donors.

  The machine had a flat screen monitor attached, to either keep abreast of unfolding events, or when nothing much was happening with the world, run some of the shows he'd beaten in the ratings. Yes, Sir, Mr. President gained a 30.1 Neilson share, going head-to-head in prime time against both Cheers and Seinfeld, and losing only to The Simpsons.

  This morning's workout companion opened with a bugle charge, and the president squinted at the screen. F Troop, a comedy from his childhood, and not so amusing today. There wasn't anything funny about Indians—excuse me, Native Americans. Not after they coalesced into a unified, five million strong voting block, and started blowing up pipelines.

  Mason Drubb, Special Assistant to the President, stuck his head in the Oval, said, “Mr. President, the vice president requires your presence.”

  Then SHORTSTOP's stomach gurgled. He puckered, hopped off the machine, and quick-stepped into the nearest facilities. There are seventeen facilities in the White House, and since returning from the grip-and-grin at Walter Reed, the president had learned the location of every one.

  His personal physician, Dr. Thaddeus “Doc” Kellogg, had determined he had Type 2 Shigella dysenteriae. Doc said it was a common Third World annoyance, and prescribed ciprofloxacin hydrochloride, an antibiotic us
ed to treat bacterial infections.

  Kellogg was not only an alumnus of St. George's Medical & Veterinary School on the lovely island of Grenada, but also a graduate of Three Kings Bible College, and hence a Doctor of Divinity.

  He had been two credits shy of graduation from St. George’s when President Reagan sent in the Marines. He returned to Oklahoma, where he opened the Kellogg Body and Soul Clinic. ‘Healing the Mind and the Spirit’.

  “Cipro’s got a few side effects we should watch for,” Doc Kellogg had said, snapping on a latex glove in preparation for a presidential probe. “Let me know about any central nervous system changes.”

  “Like what?” the president asked, dropping his shorts.

  “Like dizziness, confusion, tremors. Hallucinations, depression.”

  The president made it to the toilet with seconds to spare. ‘Montezuma’s Revenge’ Doc Kellogg had joked, but the gurgle and subsequent evacuation of liquid and its accompanying stench was no joke to the Leader of the Free World.

  He left the vent fan running, opened the door. Time to get out of these funky workout clothes, into some fresh duds.

  But Mason was waiting in the hallway. “Mr. President, the vice president and several cabinet members are waiting for you in the Situation Room.” He backed away from the bathroom door. “Seems there is a situation.”

  Mason Drubb was wearing his usual navy blue suit and white shirt. Dressing each morning was made easier in that he owned a closet full of navy blue suits, 44 Short, and dozens of Pima cotton white shirts. His lone nod to fashion was a large collection of brightly-colored game board neckties. Parcheesi, Scrabble, Clue. Chutes and Ladders.

  Today he wore his Monopoly tie; Boardwalk and Park Place front and center. Jail was safely out of sight, deep inside the Windsor knot.

  They descended to the bowels of the White House. A full-dress Marine stationed outside the Situation Room snapped to attention as the president and his SAP strode through the blast-proof door.

  The raised oak paneling of the previous administration had been replaced with a pale cream sound-absorbing material. The old TV screens, once hidden behind the paneling, were gone. Now billboard-sized LED monitors covered the walls, changing the look from boardroom to the set of a cable news show.

  SHORTSTOP shadow boxed his vice president. “DEERSLAYER. Que pasa?” He nodded to DHS Secretary Lawrence Edgerton, Attorney General Gabe Oxenhammer, and his National Security Advisor, General Fletcher Bainbridge, U.S. Army (Ret.). “Fellas.” After the usual second-term cabinet shuffle it was a chore, keeping up with all the new names.

  Everyone wore suits and ties, and the president was naked by comparison. He complained to his cabinet officers, “You interrupted my morning workout. This better be important.”

  The vice president crooned, “We’ll let you be the judge, Mr. President.” He reached for one of several telephones on the polished walnut conference table dominating the room. “We’re ready for the PDB.”

  The president didn’t recognize the fella who came through the door. His Presidential Daily Brief was always delivered up in the Oval, by the Director of Central Intelligence, a thirty-year careerist at Langley, and recently elevated to the Top Job after the sudden and somewhat clouded resignation of his predecessor. The vice president told him not to worry about it, so he didn't.

  At the last visit the DCI, knowing the president's affinity for shenanigans, had shown him a document from the archives, detailing a super-secret op created by President Eisenhower, and christened ‘Operation CHAOS’ by DCI Helms. They recruited exiles from Castro’s Cuba, burglarized foreign diplomatic sites, and other cool shit.

  He ignored the man, and frowned at the vice president. “Where's the DCI?”

  DEERSLAYER cleared his throat. “Sir, the Director and SecDef are in the Caribbean, putting eyeballs on the situation. Today’s brief will be delivered by Harlan Cassidy, Deputy Director of Operations.”

  The president dropped into his usual seat at the head of the table, and eyeballed Cassidy. Operations. The ‘wet work’ people. This one was a lean weasel with slicked-back hair and a thin mustache.

  “Good Morning, Mr. President.” The DDO touched a control on the desk, and a black screen became a Google map of the hemisphere. He opened a laptop, and Power Pointed several grainy Keyhole satellite images onto the largest monitors.

  Cassidy looked up for a moment, mentally coordinating the information displayed with the data on his computer. “Over the past twelve hours the conditions on the Guyana-Suriname border have been steadily deteriorating—”

  SHORTSTOP smelled something funny besides himself, and raised his hand like a traffic cop. “Whoa; hold up there a sec, podnuh. What’s this border talk? Guy-ana’s an African country, and the other one is someplace in Asia.” He glared at the vice president. Eight years ago SHORTSTOP had put some serious whup-ass on DEERSLAYER in the primaries, and ever since the vice president had sought payback at inopportune moments.

  The vice president cleared his throat. “I understand your confusion, Mr. President,” he carefully said. “Most Americans can’t find either one on a map. The fact of the matter is, they are cheek by jowl, on the Northeastern hump of South America. Sandwiched between Brazil and Venezuela. Jewels, as it were, in the Fat Lady’s cleavage.”

  SHORTSTOP looked closer at the Google map, then the DDO. “No shit. They always been there?”

  Cassidy nodded. “Going by various names, but, yes, sir. They were colonies, until the Brits relinquished Guyana in ‘66, and the Dutch cut Suriname loose in 1975.”

  “Hells bells. Ya learn something new every day.” He nodded for the DDO to continue.

  “As I said, tensions are high, and the border has recently seen incursions on both sides by their respective military.”

  “Soldiers, eh? How many we talking here? Major forces?”

  Cassidy glanced at his PDB. “Guyana has sixteen hundred men under arms, Suriname two thousand.”

  “Well, Sweet Baby Jane! Send a six pack of Marines down there, kick their asses back across the borders.”

  “Yessir. The thing is—”

  “What-all are they fussin’ about? Who screwed the sheep?”

  Cassidy swallowed a smile. “It’s a dispute over lines of demarcation. Guyana is separated from Suriname by the Corentyne River, which has been the accepted boundary for the last hundred and fifty years. Now Suriname is laying claim to the New River Triangle, an area of six thousand square miles, extending into the continental shelf.”

  The president leaned back in the big chair, threw a leg on the corner of the table. “MEGO, fella. In case you don’t know the term, it stands for my eyes glaze over. Here’s another one. KISS. Keep it simple, stupid.”

  “Yessir. It’s analogous to the District of Columbia, located between Virginia and Maryland. With the Potomac and Anacosta Rivers as the boundary, and both states claiming sovereignty over the District.”

  “And tell me why we give a shit?”

  The vice president stepped in. “Oil, Mr. President. Guyana has reserves of fifteen billion barrels. In the contested offshore territory.”

  “Are they friendly to us? The Guyanesers? What are they, Hispanics?”

  Cassidy shook his head. “One might think so, given the makeup of the rest of the continent. But, no.” He went back to the Briefing Book for details. “There are seven definable ethnic groups, with East Indians being the largest. Then Portuguese, Chinese, and Afro-Guyanese, followed by a smattering of indigenous peoples. The official language is English, by the way.”

  SHORTSTOP said, “Huh. Sort of a melting pot, like when the Europeans came over here. What about this Suriname? What are they like?”

  “Another ‘melting pot’, as you put it, Mr. President. Eight main ethnic groups. Their official language is Dutch.”

  “O.K. Let’s deploy those Marines, kick the Dutchie's ass, and send our oil companies in to help the English speakers out.”

  Cassidy delivered his lines
. “Not quite that simple, sir. There’s another player.” The CIA man glanced at the vice president, who nodded the go-ahead. “Venezuela claims all of the area west of the Essequibo River in Guyana. Resulting in a Venezuelan EEZ/continental shelf, extending over a large portion of the eastern Caribbean Sea.” He paused before delivering the kicker. “They have an army of eighty thousand.”

  The vice president picked up the thread, and said, very softly, “They also have proven oil reserves of seventy-eight billion barrels. As well as heavy crude deposits in the Orinoco belt. Deposits said to be as large as Saudi Arabia’s.” He raised his hand, pointed at the map. “As you can see, Mr. President, Venezuela is a lot closer than the Middle East.”

  Cassidy came in on cue. “It’s a Christian nation; ninety-two percent Roman Catholic. Not an Islamic lunatic in sight.”

  “Well, shit. Can’t be having conflict in the Hemisphere.” The president rocked forward, stood, and adjusted his waistband. Shorts were riding up. “Be contrary to our Monroe Doctrine. Or something. Get my press secretary to write up a few talking points, something we can leak to the bloggers. And I'll tweet my social media, America's number one news source.”

  He raised his finger and eyebrows in his signature light bulb moment from Yes, Sir, Mr. President. “It's why I always had a politician do a cameo on my show. Got the idea from Nixon, back when Laugh in was big.”

  He aimed the finger at Mason Drubb. “Make it happen, SAP. I'm going to Camp David for the weekend. Solo, since the First Lady is off on one of her Abstinence Only expeditions. Preachin’ what she practices, so to speak.”

  He clapped his hands. Once; palms cupped, producing the well known POP! Showing some of his famous decisiveness. “I’m heading up to the Residence to take another shit, then shower, and shave. DEERSLAYER, get the boys at DoD to rev up a few scenarios, militarily speaking. In case we have to go, what's the word? Proactive.”

  DERSLAYER gave SHORTSTOP his famous Cheshire cat grin. “In the works, Mister President. In the works.”